


Harry Potter and the Man Who Lived

by Ulpian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulpian/pseuds/Ulpian
Summary: Harry Potter begins his first year at Hogwarts. But all is not what it seems ...SS/PS AU. Non-canon.





	1. Chapter 1 - The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to J. K. Rowling - all characters mentioned, everything. Nothing belongs to me. I am merely playing around with her creations!  
> Hello everyone - this is going to be a novel, updated every week or so.   
> Hope you enjoy!

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of No. 4 Privet Drive, sat in silence at their pristine kitchen table. Petunia Dursley was as thin as a rake, with curly blonde hair and a particularly long neck. She was currently sitting stiff and upright in her chair, clutching her infant son Dudley to her chest, as if fearing he was about to be snatched away at any moment. 

 

Vernon Dursley was a large, portly man, with a fondness for shouting and an intolerance for nonsense. He was sat with his arms crossed, frowning, his bushy moustache twitching every so often on his round (and rather red) face. 

 

Both of the Dursleys were staring at a small bundle in front of them. To a passer-by strolling past their kitchen window, this bundle would appear to be nothing more than a rumpled lump of blankets.

 

But the Dursleys were able to see what a passer-by could not. Within the bundle lay a baby boy, fast asleep and clutching a letter in his tiny hand. Though young, Harry James Potter already had a mess of jet black hair atop his head, and (to the Dursleys’ horror) a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead. 

 

Petunia Dursley had had the shock of her life when she had found Harry that morning, placed unceremoniously upon their doorstep. Milk from the shattered bottles flowing slowly down their garden path, she had picked the boy up, quite reluctantly, and stared at him. Vernon, having heard the crash of the milk bottles, had rushed to the front door and pulled his gently wife back into the house. Petunia had placed a crying Harry onto the kitchen table, picked up their own baby son from his high chair, and they had sat down to look at their nephew.

 

Harry had cried for a couple of minutes, settled back down, and was now fast asleep once more. Several minutes later, no one had moved. The only noise that could be heard now was the wooden kitchen clock, ticking softly behind the Dursleys on the wall.

 

A car door slammed outside. Both the Dursleys jumped, as if shocked out of a trance, and looked at each other, blinking.

 

After a few moments, Vernon cleared his throat and said, gruffly, “is that … er … I mean to say, did he always have that thing on his forehead? The … the mark?”

 

“No.” whispered Petunia.

 

They both turned their heads back to Harry. The scar was bright red, but not bleeding. The skin around the wound was angry, and raised.

 

Petunia shivered and clutched Dudley even more firmly to her chest. He started to cry.

 

“Oh! Oh, Dudders …”, said Petunia, as if she hadn’t realised he was in her arms. Cooing to him gently, she got up off of her chair and left the kitchen. Vernon heard her walk upstairs and into Dudley’s room, and when she returned to the kitchen a couple of minutes later, their son was not with her.

 

She turned on the baby monitor that was sat next to the sink, and brought it to the kitchen table. She looked pale and frightened as she sat back down. They both stared at the bundle again.

 

“What do you think this all means?” Petunia asked.

 

Vernon didn't answer. He shuffled nervously in his seat. He had never got along with Petunia's sister - indeed, neither had _Petunia_ , so he hadn't felt particularly bad about it - and he'd only met his nephew a couple of times. And yet, here he was, lying asleep on their kitchen table.

 

“I … I don’t think Lily has a telephone number. Nor does … that boy. We can’t … can’t contact them.” Her voice was extremely quiet.

“No. Well. I wouldn’t expect … their kind, you know,” said Vernon. 

There was silence again. Then –

“Do you think we should open it?” Petunia asked suddenly, nodding towards the letter. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white.

Vernon didn’t answer, but bent forward and picked up the letter. Harry’s hand, which had been enclosed around a corner of the letter, disappeared into the folds of his blanket as he turned in his sleep.

They bent their heads together and examined the letter. It was addressed to both of them, in long, curved letters written in emerald green ink:

 

_Mr & Mrs Dursley_

_The Kitchen_

_No. 4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

 

They turned the letter over. A wax seal secured the letter, which Vernon Dursley broke with a shaking hand. He unfolded the letter, and they began to read.

 

_Dear Mr & Mrs Dursley,_

 

_My name is Albus Dumbledore._

 

_I regret that this is the means by which I must introduce myself to you, Mr Dursley (Mrs Dursley, you will remember me, I’m sure), and I am in no doubt that the following will come as a great shock (not to mention, a great sadness) to you, but I must inform you that Lily and James Potter have, most unfortunately, perished._

 

_My sincerest condolences are sent to you at this most unpleasant time, but I am afraid that (as you may have put together) this regrettable situation leaves the Potters’ infant son Harry an orphan, and without home or guardian._

 

_Therefore, it is to you that I entrust his care. I cannot express how important it is that he remains with you until he is ready to come to school. He is, like his parents, a wizard, and will have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when the time comes. Until this time comes, however, you must protect him. Lily and James’ death was no accident. Both your family and Harry shall be guarded from the horrors that befell the Potters, but only so long as he may call any home in which you reside his home also. This is of paramount importance._

 

_I trust that you, as his relatives, shall provide a happy home for your nephew, and that he shall flourish under your care. I shall be in contact again in the future, when Harry is ready to begin his wizarding studies._

 

_Many condolences for your loss, and the very best of luck to you._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

 

_Professor Albus Dumbledore_

 

_Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

_PS. Unless I am sorely mistaken, Harry shall not be attending alone._

 

The Dursleys finished reading the letter at the same time, and looked at each other. Petunia had tears in her eyes. Vernon’s face was, for once, as white as a sheet.

 

“Petunia … I … I’m sorry, dear,” Vernon grumbled. He was, once more, not sure what to say. “Your sister … awful business.”

 

“Yes.” She said, turning back to the letter.

 

He paused for a moment, waiting for her to look back up at him. She didn’t, however, so he continued.

“We can’t take the boy. Surely, you see that, dear? It’s not right for Dudders. I know your parents aren’t around, but don’t you have another relative? An aunt, or … ? I mean, even an orphanage – “

 

“No.” 

 

The word was whispered, but Petunia might as well have shouted it in Vernon’s face. He looked at her, stunned. She raised her eyes to him, which were no longer shining with tears, but stony, and cold.

 

She had made up her mind.

 

For far too long, Petunia thought, she been filled with feelings of jealousy towards her sister. Lily had always been centre stage, taking everything Petunia had ever wanted – their parents’ affection, her looks, her brains –  she had even been pregnant at a younger age than Petunia. Indeed, Lily had even had things Petunia didn’t _know_ she wanted until Lily had them. Petunia remembered the day her sister received her Hogwarts letter – Lily had run, screaming with excitement down the hallway towards the kitchen in her pyjamas. She had been unable to remain still whilst their parents read the letter. Mr Evans had dropped his toast on his suit trousers in shock. It had remained there for several minutes.

 

Initially, like her parents, Petunia had felt nothing but wonder – _magic_ existed, real, true _magic_ – but after a couple of hours, the jealousy had set in. Why hadn’t it been her – the elder sister – that had been chosen? Why was _she_ the one that had to stay at home, forever unimpressive with her hard work and good marks because Lily could fly on a broomstick and turn mice into teacups?

_And now_ , she thought, _she’s dead._

She was dead, just like their parents, and yet she had taken centre stage once again. Petunia would not be able to raise her son in peace. She would have to raise her sister’s son as well, in her own home. Indeed, she would have to raise him or put her own family, it seemed, in mortal peril.

 

_Typical Lily_ , she thought, as rage built up inside her.

 

“He stays, Vernon,” she said, standing up, struggling to keep her voice level. “We are not putting Dudley in danger.”

“But, dear –“ Vernon protested

“He stays!” She shouted.

Vernon opened his mouth as if to reply, saw the expression on his wife’s face, closed it again, and then nodded.

Petunia sighed and closed her eyes.

_You will not be second best, Dudley,_ Petunia thought to herself. _You will always come first. Always. You will not be overshadowed. She will never do that to my son._

Petunia opened her eyes and looked at Harry. To her surprise, he was now awake. He was looking at her with bright, green eyes. Lily’s eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat.

For a moment, they stared at each other.

Then she turned away, and left the kitchen.

She left the boy to her husband. She had her own son to see.

 


	2. Chapter 2 - The Argument

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry overhears an argument between his aunt and uncle.

**Chapter 2 – The Argument**

‘Wingarnium Loviosa!’ said an eleven-year-old Dudley Dursley, grinning widely. Once a small, chubby baby, Dudley had now grown into a much bigger, much chubbier, boy. He had a round face and a mop of blond hair on his head, and was looking increasingly like his father as the years passed.

 

The stick in his hand swished through the air as he waved it over the mug sitting on the coffee table. The mug did nothing.

 

“Oh well _done,_ Duddy!” Aunt Petunia said, clapping with delight as Dudley swished his wand through the air again. She looked much the same as she had nine years ago, other than that her face was, perhaps, slightly more lined.

 

“I think you’ve got it!” she squealed, “you really have! You’ll be top of your year at Hogwarts!”

 

The other boy in the room, a now ten-year-old Harry Potter, rolled his eyes and sat back against the squashy sofa. Harry was small for his age, and so slight that he always looked engulfed in any clothes he wore, even if they were the right size for him (which they hardly ever were, as most of his clothes were Dudley’s hand-me-downs). He had messy, black hair that was always stuck up at the back, and bright, green eyes. He now wore a pair of glasses, which, having been sellotaped incessantly over the years, now sat slightly lopsided.

 

Harry, Dudley, and Aunt Petunia were sat all together on one sofa in the sitting room, and Harry was feeling rather glum, watching Dudley practising his spells again.

 

Dudley never seemed to actually _want_ to start practising – probably, Harry thought, because he never actually wanted to do much that wasn’t eating ice cream, watching his television shows, or blowing up aliens on his computer – but when he started to wave around his wand and say all sorts of garbled nonsense, his mother praised and rewarded him so much that it seemed to inflate Dudley’s sense of self-importance like a balloon.

 

“You’re getting so good, Duddy!” said Aunt Petunia,  “I definitely saw it move, that time. Your technique must be almost perfect, now!” She beamed at her son.

 

“What are you talking about?” said Harry, leaning forward. “That’s not even what it says – it’s Wingar _di_ um L _ev_ iosa. He didn’t get either word right!” Harry was looking at the battered old book on Aunt Petunia’s lap, _The Standard Book of Spells Year 1_  by Miranda Goshawk, which was open at Chapter 3, entitled ‘Levitation’.

 

Aunt Petunia snapped the book shut and glared at Harry.

 

“Go to your cupboard! NOW!” She shrieked. Harry groaned and slid off of the sofa.

 

He’d been an idiot. He knew complaining about Dudley’s wand-waving wasn’t a smart thing to do, but he often just couldn’t help himself. It wasn’t fair that he wasn’t a wizard. Dudley would be going off to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in September, and learning all about levitating things and turning matchsticks into needles and making all sorts of potions … he would even – and Harry’s stomach gave a particularly painful jolt at the thought – be learning to fly a broomstick …

 

_It’s not fair_ , thought Harry. _It was_ my _mother who was a witch …_

 

His aunt had begrudgingly given him this information when he had spotted that the books Dudley was using to practice his spells all had the name ‘Lily Evans’ written inside the front cover.

 

However, it was not Harry, but _Dudley_ who was going to Hogwarts. Petunia had informed them both at age nine that Dudley was a wizard, and had told them about Hogwarts School and Witchcraft and Wizardry, and all the spells that he was going to learn. Harry remembered Dudley’s eyes shining with glee. He also remembered the disbelief and envy that had immediately raged inside him.

 

Aunt Petunia had done all she could to prepare Dudley for Hogwarts. She gave him weekly lessons in spellwork. She had even revealed a small, golden, ‘Quidditch’ ball, which she would throw around to Dudley every so often to try and train him up for Quidditch. Aunt Petunia didn’t know how to play quidditch (or even what the tiny golden ball was called), but she concluded that this practice was better than no practice at all.

 

Harry knew that Aunt Petunia’s knowledge of the wizarding world was limited because she wasn’t a witch, but the fact that she knew so much more than Harry about the world his mother had occupied bothered him immensely. He used to wonder where she had got all of her information from, but after he had spotted his mother’s name in Dudley’s school textbooks, he’d pieced it together quickly. Lily must have told her all about Hogwarts, and all the different classes she was attending …

 

Every time he saw his aunt and cousin sitting with his mother’s old spellbooks, he felt an enormous sense of guilt. Had he failed his mother by not being a wizard?

 

At least, Harry thought, Uncle Vernon did not treat Dudley with the same sickening levels of affection as his wife did when their son was in his ‘lessons’ with her in the sitting room. Vernon Dursley seemed to want to keep quite a distance from his son and wife when they were in the middle of anything Hogwarts-related. Harry supposed he would have found this comforting, had Uncle Vernon not also held a severe dislike for anything Harry-related, too.

 

As Harry entered the hallway, he thought he saw Uncle Vernon watching the proceedings going on in the sitting room with something like disgust in his eyes. Noticing Harry looking at him, Uncle Vernon turned away and began to shuffle through his briefcase.

 

Harry hurriedly opened the door of the cupboard under the stairs where he slept, entered, and closed it shut behind him. He then pulled a spider off of his pillow, and placed his head down on it. Blinking away tears, he screwed up his eyes and imagined that it was _he_ instead who was going to Hogwarts. _He_ who was going to play a game flying round on a broomstick, or making a potion in a cauldron, or swishing his wand around …

 

*

 

Harry opened his eyes. It was pitch black, and he realised that he must have fallen asleep after being sent to his cupboard. He stretched his limbs gingerly and realised that his joints were aching. He had fallen asleep in an odd, cramped position (not a rare occurrence in the cupboard under the stairs), and would certainly pay for it over the next couple of days. As he ran his hands over his mattress and blankets, searching for his glasses, he suddenly became aware of muffled shouting. He paused immediately, and strained to listen.

 

“What you’re doing is sick, Petunia! Sick!”

 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about Vernon! Keep your voice down, you’ll wake Dudley!”

 

It was his uncle and aunt.

 

Harry sat, frozen in shock. He had _never_ heard his aunt and uncle argue before. Not once. Oh, they certainly shouted at _him_ and argued with _him_ , but never each other …

 

He strained to keep listening.

 

“ … just making things more complicated for when the time comes!”

 

“I don’t see how –“

 

“This is no time for experimentation, Petunia! This is our-“

 

“I am doing what I think is right, Vernon! I’m preventing him feeling how I felt!”

 

There was a pause, and then his aunt continued: “if you can’t stand it, leave!  But I am sending him there if I have to drag him myself!”

 

There was another pause. This turned into a long silence, and eventually Harry heard the creak of bedsprings as his uncle and aunt got back into bed.

 

Harry sat in the darkness for a few minutes, trying to make sense of all he’d heard. What was Aunt Petunia talking about? What was she doing? Where was she dragging who?

 

Harry was simply too tired to think about it all now. Yawning, he felt another spider on his pillow. Throwing it away into the darkness, he settled his head back down and fell asleep within seconds.

 

*  
  
The next day, Aunt Petunia was bustling around in the kitchen when Harry came in for breakfast.

 

“Here,” she said, stiffly, handing Harry a bowl of stale, bran cereal drenched in milk.

 

“Er – thanks,” said Harry. Aunt Petunia had never made breakfast for him before. He stared at the bowl of cereal before him. First the argument in the middle of the night, and now this. What was going on?

 

He looked at his aunt. Her eyes were red, and she was sniffing quietly as she bustled around the kitchen. He suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for her. Quite why he felt this, he couldn’t have said – she had never (other than this sudden and mysterious bowl of cereal), treated him with any kindness or warmth.

 

He started spooning the cereal into his mouth, and moments later heard the heavy thud-thud-thud of his cousin coming down the stairs. Dudley’s porky frame entered the kitchen.

 

“What’s for breakfast?” he asked. Aunt Petunia turned round. Her face held a strained smile.

 

“Well, what would you like, darling? We’ve – I’ve – got bacon, eggs, cereal … I could make you some of those pepper sausages if you like?”

 

Dudley’s face screwed up into an expression of disgust. “Ugh, no. Dad’s the one that likes those.” He looked around. “Where is Dad?”

 

Harry’s spoon paused on its way to his mouth. He looked around. He had assumed that Uncle Vernon had already left for work – his car keys were not on the counter, and his coat was gone from the hook by the door – but now that he thought about it, this didn’t make sense. It was a Saturday. Where was he?

 

Aunt Petunia didn’t answer for a moment. Silently she retrieved a packet of bacon rashers from the fridge, and placed it on the counter. She took a deep breath and turned to her son.

 

“Dudley,” She said. It looked, to Harry, like she was gripping the kitchen counter for support.

 

Suddenly, Harry remembered the words ‘if you don’t like it, leave’, and realised where his uncle must have gone. He stared at his aunt. It seemed … impossible. Inconceivable. Uncle Vernon could not have –

 

A sudden jangling sound came from the front door. Harry heard the door swing open with a slight creak, swing back, and then click shut. Slow footfalls proceeded down the corridor, and then the figure of Uncle Vernon appeared in the kitchen.

 

Aunt Petunia was chalk-white as she stared at Uncle Vernon. He was red-faced, looking at the ground. Dudley’s confused face was turning from one of his parents to the other. After a few moments, Uncle Vernon turned and silently walked back up the corridor and up the stairs. Harry could tell he had walked into his study.

 

“What’s going on?!” yelled Dudley, suddenly. His face was as red as his father’s. Harry was sure he had never been ignored by either of his parents for this long. Frustration and anger showed clearly on his round face.

 

Aunt Petunia quickly started fussing over the bacon again. “Nothing, dear – your father just went out for a short walk. Would you like three or four slices of bacon, Duddykins?”

 

Dudley hesitated. Harry could see the battle between curiosity and greed waging within him. Eventually – as it always seemed to – greed won.

 

“Four,” he said, “And some eggs, Mum.”

 

Harry stood up and took his bowl to the sink. He rinsed it out, put it in the dishwasher, and retreated back to his cupboard to think.

 

He was sure, _absolutely_ sure, that Uncle Vernon had left No. 4 Privet Drive with the intention of never returning. Why? Was it because of the row he had had with Aunt Petunia last night? What had that been about?

 

Harry racked his brains, trying to make sense of it all. His uncle had said that Petunia was doing an _experiment_ – what had he meant?

  
Harry frowned. He just couldn’t make sense of any of it. He sighed and looked over at a calendar he had made at the beginning of the year, which was taped to the wall. It was July 30 th.

 

A knot of dread twisted in his stomach. His birthday was tomorrow.

 

Because any reason that Harry might have to feel special was always quickly quashed by the Dursleys, his birthdays were never any fun. In fact, his aunt and uncle always _coincidentally_ took Dudley out for the day on Harry’s birthday. They had been to the cinema, to the zoo, and one year they had even travelled via train up to central London. That birthday had been particularly difficult. He had never been anywhere outside of Little Whinging in the whole time he had been living with the Dursleys, and so sitting in his cupboard whilst thinking about Dudley visiting Harrods, or the British Museum, or Big Ben … it had been almost unbearable.

 

A burning flame of anger and hatred suddenly ignited within his stomach. At that moment he felt, for the first time in his life, that he really wanted to hurt his family. To make them suffer, just like he had. To have them know what it was like to live his existence, even for a moment. To make them feel one _ounce_ of the misery he had felt for his entire –

 

A flash of pain seared suddenly across his forehead. He gasped, and smacked a hand to his scar. He sat in the semi-darkness, breathing rapidly, the pain gone as quickly as it had come. He did not remove his hand from his forehead. His palms started to become clammy with nervousness.

 

What on _earth_ had that been? A bad headache? Did he have some sort of serious medical condition that had suddenly now decided to surface? He ran his fingers gently over his scar. It was prickling now.

 

He frowned. He knew he had got the scar in the car crash that had killed his parents. They had, apparently, been driving too fast along the motorway on a particularly rainy evening.

 

Unfortunately for Harry, this was all the Dursleys could bear tell him about his parents (other than Aunt Petunia’s one, reluctant confession that Lily had been a witch). A fierce expression of loathing would appear on his aunt and uncle’s faces if he ever asked about his parents, followed by an order to go to his cupboard. He had learned to stop asking about them.

 

Despite this, every time Harry was in a car his eyes would dart round the interior, looking for some sort of car part that could have made the lightning-bolt shape of the scar on his forehead. He had never found anything that looked remotely plausible, however.

 

He was particularly fond of his scar. It was the only thing he really liked about his appearance, because it was the only real thing he had that connected him to his past, and his parents. And now it had betrayed him.

 

This was all too much. Harry felt tears welling up behind his glasses, and his vision went fuzzy. He hurriedly wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and resolutely decided to try and forget about everything worrying him, just for his birthday tomorrow. For one day, he would forget about Dudley’s wizard status, his aunt and uncle’s midnight row, and the pain in his scar. He could worry again about those things in August.

 

Harry fumbled around in the dark and found what he was looking for under his mattress sheet. It was a small, thin piece of metal that he had managed to flatten at one end, to make a kind of primitive screwdriver. With this, every year on 31st July, Harry was able to unscrew the lock that kept him trapped in his cupboard whilst the Dursleys were away – Uncle Vernon always triple-checked he had locked Harry safely up in the cupboard before they departed in his car for the day – and use the toilet, or watch television for a few minutes. He never dared to leave his cupboard for very long, but knowing he had more or less the whole house at his disposal was always exciting.

 

Harry was slightly more cheerful for the rest of the day, looking forward to his solitude the next day.

 

The morning of his birthday, Harry awoke, and tried to exit his cupboard. The door remained firmly shut. He pushed harder. The door remained closed.

 

Panicking slightly now, he took out his little screwdriver and unscrewed the lock on the door. He pushed at the door again. It did not budge.

 

“Aha!” barked Uncle Vernon, triumph in his voice. “I knew it, I _knew_ it – Mr Reduh at No. 7 saw you walking around the house last year! You’ve been getting out when the cupboard’s locked. Well, I’ll be sure to take care of that! Get back _in_ , boy!”

 

He grabbed Harry by the scruff of the neck and shoved him back into the cupboard.

 

“No!” Harry said, panicking. His whole day would be ruined if he was locked in the cupboard, and he’d have no choice but to dwell on all the things worrying him. “You’re not even leaving the house yet!”

 

“I’m taking no chances with you, boy!” snarled Uncle Vernon.

 

Harry back inside, Uncle Vernon slammed the cupboard door shut. Moments later, Harry heard a series of loud bangs which seemed to shake the whole cupboard. With a sinking feeling, Harry realised Uncle Vernon was nailing him in.

 

“No!” he shouted, “Nooooo!”

 

“SHUT! UP!” roared Uncle Vernon. He was now banging the hammer on Harry’s cupboard so hard that Harry was sure he was denting the door on the other side. At this exclamation, Aunt Petunia came running downstairs from her bedroom.

  
“Vernon? What are you – “

  
“HE’S NOT GETTING OUT!” Uncle Vernon shouted.

 

Aunt Petunia said nothing, but folded her slim arms and stood in silence, watching Uncle Vernon nailing Harry’s cupboard shut. She had a worried expression on her face. Harry looked at her pleadingly through the slats in the small cupboard window, and after a few moments she locked eyes with him. They stared at each other for a while. Eventually, however, Aunt Petunia’s expression became stony and cold, and she turned her back on Harry and walked into the kitchen.

 

Eventually, Uncle Vernon obviously decided that he had embedded enough nails into the door to keep Harry imprisoned in the cupboard, and retreated to the sitting room, saying nothing to Harry. Harry sat back against the wall of his cupboard, and tried to accept the fact that he would be sitting alone, in this cramped, dark cupboard for the next few hours. They hadn’t even left him any food.

 

Harry wondered, desperately, if there was anyone he could contact whilst the Dursleys were away to come and let him out. There was no telephone in the cupboard, however, and he knew no one at all, apart from the Dursleys and Mrs Figg – an elderly woman with too many cats who lived down the road.

 

_I have no allies_ , Harry thought. _There’s no point. There’s no one to help._

 

How very wrong he was.


End file.
